Way

(1) most of the things are limited, and the so-called infinite can only be to some extent. The term of the year has passed, and the time dimension of the year has opened the door. I met and lost all the way. A well-written story has never been deduced. There were also high-profile swearing and endless emphasis, and later they were bluffing; There were also new departures, and later they were silent endurance, deep-rooted marks and self-response. The rhythm of every winter morning contains thick and thin hair, cold breeze, thoughts precipitated by baptism, and the complex of thinking like broken old books with faint moisture and dew. Holding a pen in hand, thinking of some people, some things, some written sentences. Winter in the South, cold bone erosion. The trees on the street are still green, but they reveal desolation, dust and exhaustion. Weekend break, mostly alone, single cycle with a piece of music, quiet and melancholy. Those faded things, those who went away, were clear and vague across the river of time. The so-called love has to be, but it is just shallow love, deeply hidden. Keeping the silence of the night, the flowers of fantasy are light and shallow. Look through the dusty books on the bookshelf, sketch a poem, and exchange for an unknown arrival. Chapters intermittent, dismay and quietly wait for, give up time old,, give up clouds flower falls, give up those accompanying scenery. Time is not old, we are not separated, it is a good wish, but time is really not old, but we are no longer young. Landscape between, clear. Standing near the window, holding his cheek with one hand, banished his heart to the distant place. (Ii) the imprint of time is on the mottled walls of memory. The sunshine in the afternoon warms the ancient trees and vines, and the shadowy silhouette accumulates the whole old walls. Those speculated panic were deposited in the noisy sound. Every sensitive nerve touches the flow of blood. How many old days are treasured. Wooden bookshelves with some debris falling down, neat books, randomly selected one to read, word by word, recorded the dribs and drabs of the world of mortals and those plain feelings. My closed heart lost my waiting. (3) meet all the way, lose all the way, think about yourself, and wait persistently for an unexpected prosperity. Lean against the corner of the wall and sleep on your knees. Quiet time, quiet and dark life. At the corner of time, your figure is gradually moving away, leaving only deep and shallow footprints. Life, do not forget your original heart, can always find your original self. Those words that have made efforts to weave their minds reveal clear lines. The world is stable, and there are many times when I am worried about giving new words, pretending to be sad spring and hurt autumn. Now, I admire the bright eyes at the beginning. In the old days, when we let down and despair, we were full of complaints. After all, we were covered with bruises and couldn’t live with pain. I also learned to forget, learn to let go, about those unwilling and regretful. The diary of the past and the textbook of childhood were lost in the corner of the old house. If you make a wish in previous years, you will have everything immediately. A year has passed, and this wish has become the wish of the coming year, with some permission to laugh and feel sad. I remember the dream I wrote at the corner of the table when I was reading, which now runs in the opposite direction and goes further and further. In fact, it is not unreasonable to fall in love with words, but just get used to sadness. Calm down in desperation and forget the shining possibility. Every time I look to the sun, I work hard, and I still try my best to expect an unexpected prosperity. QQ:2602785763 author: gu ying author: like writing essays mood words, a standard 90, quite puzzled, want to know one’s work, heart and floating: world that no large, I want to see it.

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